


The Clouds

by Bolt_DMC



Series: The Bolt Chronicles [3]
Category: Bolt (2008)
Genre: Angst, Clouds, Comic Book Violence, Diners, F/M, Festivals, Friendship, Humor, Literature, Movie Reference, Music, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:48:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29972082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bolt_DMC/pseuds/Bolt_DMC
Summary: Mittens has been abandoned in Manhattan for a few months now. She tries to change her bad luck with friends and lovers, but not surprisingly, things seem to get in the way. The persistent wet and cloudy weather doesn't help, either. A pre-canon story. Primary cultural references include songs from the Joni Mitchell album "Clouds" and the O. Henry short story "The Cop and the Anthem," as well as songs by Translator, Wire Train, Buffalo Springfield, and the Bobby Fuller Four, the composer Erik Satie, the movies "The Lion King" and "Meet the Robinsons," and literature by John Steinbeck, Harper Lee, Jane Austen, Mark Twain, F. Scott Fitzgerald, J.K. Rowling, and A.A. Milne.
Relationships: Mittens (Disney)/Original Character(s)
Series: The Bolt Chronicles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041639
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	The Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: November 2007-March 2008
> 
> For Carl M.

I. Tin Angel

Mittens peeked out from underneath a bush, part of a large ornamental garden lying alongside a condo high-rise near Manhattan’s Flatiron District. The cat growled peevishly at the icy wind and falling sleet, as she had hoped to head off and explore the nearby Chelsea neighborhood today. She had heard tales of dumpsters at a classic diner that overflowed with discarded omelet scraps and abandoned burger bites. Such reports were common gossip among street critters, however, and Mittens had gone on treks like this before, only to discover that the supposed treasure trove contained so much fool’s gold.

“Guess it could be worse,” she thought. The cat took a moment to appreciate her fortuitous shelter under a bush that was below a porch. For a change, she was reasonably dry during a storm, not squabbling with three other alley cats for a prime spot to be that way. Mittens poked her head out far enough to cast a disapproving scowl at the clouds. They'd done nothing but dump rain, sleet, and snow for days on end. “Those nasty cotton balls in the sky sure know how to mess up a feline’s plans, but good,” she said sourly.

The cat had been abandoned on the streets now for a couple of months, leading a mostly solitary existence -- and quite frankly, that suited her just fine. It wasn’t like she really needed anyone, right?

Friends? Fat chance. Everybody looked out for themselves, and no one could be trusted. Mittens’s attempts to establish connections with other street dwellers had invariably ended in failure. Nobody seemed to understand the concept of teamwork or sharing. All the so-called friends she had made had either turned on her or wound up being crazy -- or both, as often as not. As she had told herself on several occasions, there was a good reason most of the strays she had encountered weren’t in loving homes.

Sweethearts? Fatter chance. Mittens had been burned so many times by tomcats who led her on that she had scorch marks on her heart. Caring and commitment were dirty words to the parade of losers she had let into her life thus far. By now, she had given up trying to find a steady lover and settled for casual dalliances whenever she was feeling frisky. It was far from satisfying, but at this point, the cat had abandoned any pretense at being choosy.

Above, she heard a rhythmic rattling. A small, glazed tin angel repeatedly clanked against the inside of a cracked-open window. Buffeted by the incessant wind, it seemed forgotten and forlorn, totally at the mercy of the elements while still maintaining its untroubled painted-on smile.

“You and me both,” Mittens thought as she looked up at the metal trinket. “We’re the gloom-and-doom sisters, sluggin’ it out against weather that would make any self-respecting penguin put on a slicker. It’s been like this all week, for dog’s sake! Ugh -- when’s it gonna give up already?” She shifted position uncomfortably and shivered. “Clouds. They’re as much fun as a tapeworm with a side of fleas. Why the heck do they even exist anyway? What’s their point? All they do is spread cold, darkness, and misery.” The cat shook her head sadly. “I really don’t know clouds at all.”

II. Songs to Aging Children Come

This particular November Saturday had dawned seasonably chilly. The clouds had continued to hang heavily, but mercifully there was no precipitation for a change.

“Chelsea,” thought Mittens. “Okay -- maybe I’ll take a chance today and see what the hoopla’s all about over at the… what was the name of that diner again? Anyway, bring on those overstuffed dumpsters!” The cat scuttled nervously between locals out for late morning brunch and dodged speeding taxicabs that seemed intent on running every yellow caution light in town.

Eventually, Mittens reached her destination. The tricked-out railroad car sported a flashing neon sign announcing itself as the Umpire Diner. A large window placard depicted a dark blue suited baseball arbiter, his right hand cocked in the air and a speech balloon over his head saying “Yer out! For a good time -- so stop in and see our bill of ‘fair’.”

The cat shook her head. “I cry foul!” she groaned. “Safe to say, that’s reeeally reaching for a pun. Next thing you know, they’ll be pushing the homemade sliders on their signature ‘Taste of Home’ plate.” She wandered out back, but given what she saw, any report of open, teeming bins here was at the very least outdated news. The three refuse receptacles were brand new, sealed tighter than a snare drum head. “Blech! Another wild goose chase,” Mittens thought. “This trip was the biggest waste of time since I snuck into that theater to watch ‘Meet the Robinsons’. And if I don’t score some grub pretty soon, that growl in my stomach is gonna turn into a lion’s roar.”

Sitting against the rounded front corner of the eatery was a disheveled-looking man. He appeared relatively young to be in such a state, probably in his late 20s or thereabouts. Despite his scraggly and greasy hair, unshaven jowls, and scruffy clothes, his face radiated a rumpled, approachable friendliness. To his right was a Styrofoam clamshell container with some kind of morning repast and a bottled beverage hidden in a brown paper sack. To his left, a tinny boombox played the song “Fall Forever” by Translator, flanked further beyond by a black and brown tabby cat of considerable size.

Mittens sniffed the air, savoring the odor of bacon, egg, and cheese on a croissant. She approached the homeless fellow tentatively, hoping she might score a small handout. The tramp smiled when he saw the tuxedo cat. “Well, look at you, little missy! Black as the Queen of Clubs you are,” he slurred as he picked up his bag-obscured libation. “So, when was the last time you ate something -- a week ago maybe?” He took a swig from the bottle and belched. “You’re so thin I’ll bet if you stood over a subway grate, you’d fall in, wouldn’t ya? C’mere kid,” he said while crooking a beckoning finger. “Got something for ya I’ll bet you’ll like.” He opened the clamshell receptacle and fished out a handful of breakfast sandwich, tossing it to the hungry kitty. Mittens gobbled down the greasy present with appreciative enthusiasm.

“You’re new around these parts, looks like. Pleased to meet ya -- the name’s Soapy. Or at least that’s what all my friends call me. Of which I’ve got, ohhhh let’s see, pretty much none.” He again raised the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. “Aaaah! That hit the empty spot in the old stomach. I’m the local reprobate around these here parts. Or if you don’t go for fancy five-dollar words, I’m Chelsea’s resident bum.”

Soapy looked around furtively. “Bring that skinny carcass of yours a bit closer. I’ve got a liiiiitle secret to share with you.” He leaned in towards Mittens and exhaled noisily. “I’m a pretty good guy, but I do have one teensy-weensy weakness.” He turned to the nearby tabby tomcat with a leering smirk, then faced Mittens again. “I, uh… every once in a rare while, I drink just a wee bit. Don’t tell anybody, though. It’s a secret… ”

The black cat wrinkled her face at the odor of ultra-cheap high-octane wine on his breath. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with absolutely nobody,” she thought. But she wanted to show gratitude to her croissant sandwich benefactor, so she affectionately rubbed her cheek against Soapy’s arm and meowed as the song “Everything Is Turning Up Down Again” by Wire Train coursed through the speakers.

“Aww, ain’t you sweet,” said the unkempt man. “I can tell you’re a lady through and through. I bet you’re the type who’d write thank you notes to people when they give you birthday presents if you could. ‘Fraid I’m not exactly the well-bred sort.” Soapy shifted to his left and motioned to the nearby large tabby cat to come closer. “My, my, my -- where are my manners? Allow me to, hic, introduce you to my gigantic feline pal. Just met him a few weeks ago, and we’re already best buddies.”

Mittens had initially flashed Soapy’s kitty-cat friend a simple cursory glance, given her gnawing hunger. A closer look in his direction, though, promptly melted her heart like an icicle on a blowtorch. She had been dispassionately indulging her sexual needs in an almost clinical manner for some time now, slaking her lust and then disposing of her studly partners like a candle that had served its purpose. This fellow, however, made Mittens feel all giddy and weak in the knees. He was a Maine coon cat, featuring an almost canine build in some ways -- big, but not fat, more of a brawny and hunky sort, an impression heightened by his long, if matted pelt. He carried himself with a cool confidence that had just the faintest hint of swagger. A smile played across the tabby’s lips, displaying a singular mix of curiosity and aloofness. Mittens’s captivation was complete once he opened his mouth.

“Hey there, lean, dark, and gorgeous. Where you been all my life? Name’s Tom -- pleased to meet you.”

Okay, okay. It was a corny line, she had to admit. It wasn’t actually so much what he said as how he said it -- cheerful, silver-tongued, and honeyed, with an appealing hint of suggestiveness helped immensely by his deep and beguiling voice.

“Tom? Seriously?” Mittens thought. “Not the most original moniker for a cat. Then again, lotsa people have that name. Fictional characters, even. Huh -- wonder who he’d be most like?” A dreamy smile played across the tuxedo cat’s face as she sighed and pondered further. “Maybe Tom Joad from ‘The Grapes of Wrath’ by John Steinbeck? A reformed bad boy who did his stretch in the big house and just wants a new start. Or Tom Robinson from Harper Lee’s ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’? Tragically strong-armed into the slammer for a crime he didn’t do, and dies because of it. An upright guy who’s stuck behind the eight ball. Or… ”

An amused look crossed Tom’s face as the song on the entertainment center shifted to another Wire Train selection, “I Forget It All (When I See You).” “Not exactly a chatterbox, are you,” he snickered. “So, what’sa matter, Sable -- dog got your tongue and won’t let go?”

“C’mon, Mittens -- get a hold of yourself. Quit swooning already. You know better than this. He’s just another run-of-the-mill Olympian Greek god. A sawbuck a dozen.” She cleared her head with a shake. “Oh -- oh, sorry,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “Just hadda let that bite of breakfast sandwich kick in. Haven’t had anything to eat in a day or two, and the old thinking cap gets kinda cloudy without regular refueling. And my name’s Mittens, by the way.”

Tom nodded. “Yeah -- you sure don’t have to tell me about fuzzy heads before breakfast. It’s the main reason I hang out with this rummy. Soapy’s usually good for a handout when all else fails.” The tabby licked a paw and began to groom an ear. “So -- what’s your story? Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“Nothin’ special. Just chasin’ down the usual bogus leads on unsupervised gourmet trash bins. A gal’s gotta eat once in a while, and pickin’s are slim in my neck of the woods,” replied Mittens. “My ribs are showin’ so much lately that I expect any day now to be kidnapped by some orchestral percussionist and get used as a xylophone.”

The big tabby jerked his head to the side in a gesture suggesting they head off somewhere. “I hear you, sister -- I could use a bite myself. Looks like we’ve gotten all the food we can from Drunky-Boy here, and besides, I’m bored. What say we make tracks like a caboose and get on outta here? Something tells me I’m gonna want to get to know you just a wee bit better, kiddo. There’s something intriguing about you I can’t quite put my paw on.”

“You sure we shouldn’t maybe keep Soapy company for a bit first?” asked Mittens. “I mean, he was nice enough to share his sandwich with us. A little kindness returned ain’t exactly out of place, right? Sort of the neighborly thing to do.”

Tom wrinkled his face with the faintest touch of irritation. “Heck, no -- he won’t miss us. At the rate he’s been pounding back the booze, he’ll be asleep inside of ten minutes. You could set your watch by it, if you had a watch, that is. That bargain bin swill he drinks works better than a sleeping pill. Also does a great job stripping paint off cars, or so I’ve heard.”

Mittens looked at the heavy-lidded man, who had already begun to snort into dozing territory. “Yeah, I see what you mean,” she remarked with surprise. “He looks drowsier than a dormouse.” She bumped Soapy’s hand with her head in thankful farewell, letting the wino groggily scratch her behind the ears, then scurried off with Tom as the Translator tune “Come with Me” began pulsing from the machine.

“Okay,” Mittens thought. “Let’s see what the day drops in our laps.”

III. That Song about the Midway

The two felines energetically headed north up Tenth Avenue. “So, where we goin’?” asked Mittens. “I’m a Flatiron District gal, and this part of town might as well be the moon, for all I know about it.”

“You’re in luck,” replied the tabby. “Turns out you picked a pretty good weekend to visit here. Just up on 25th Street, there’s a street festival happening. Every yutz in the neighborhood stops by to celebrate the last of autumn and tries to get a head start on Christmas shopping. It’s good for a laugh or two, and I’m sure you’ll love it.”

The blocked-off road was already bustling with vendors selling everything from discount electronics to used clothing to last-of-the-season pumpkins and gourds. Further down was a stretch of arcade games, interspersed with food trucks and tent-covered booths offering Latin American street fare and fried dough and griddled franks.

“Mmmmm!” purred Mittens as she sniffed the air. “Sausages with grilled onions and peppers are a cemetery plot just waitin’ to happen, but boy do they smell great. There’s lotsa ways to leave Earth for good, but clutching a tube steak with all the trimmings while you’ve got a big smile on your face is better than most.”

Tom broke into a crooked frown. “For sure. But I know that creep over there, and gettin’ close to his grub is a losing proposition. He instantly recognizes me these days and chases me off before I can even get within five feet of an onion peel, never mind a sausage. It’d be easier to sneak gold bars outta Fort Knox, lemme tell you.” He sauntered disinterestedly down the street as Mittens gaped at the arcade games on either side. Clusters of pre-teens were tossing darts at balloons, plucking rubber ducks out of water-filled wading pools, and spraying water into clowns’ mouths trying to move small metal horses across a track.

“Gotta say, those games look like fun,” chuckled Mittens. “With my keen reflexes and killer instinct, I could totally clean up on ‘em -- er, if I had thumbs, that is,” she amended quickly. She had held up her paw for emphasis when she mentioned thumbs, but immediately lowered it again when she saw the big tabby staring at her declawing scars.

“Rigged. Totally and utterly rigged. They’re like casinos -- they stay in business ‘cause it’s so hard to win at them. Now you take this one over here,” scoffed Tom as they stopped in front of a booth where youngsters tossed ping-pong balls at a table filled with fish bowls. “Ever watch a table tennis tournament? Those balls are really light and have a lot of bounce. Just try getting one of those to land squarely inside that little round opening. It’s almost impossible. You gotta do the equivalent of a swish in basketball to score one of these babies. Of course, these rubes haven’t got that figured out, and they probably never will.” They stared as the little white spheres bounced and tumbled around glass edges before dropping to the surrounding pavement.

“I see what you mean,” said Mittens after watching all of this unfold for several minutes. “That one redheaded kid keeps feedin’ the guy quarters and doesn’t have anything to show for it. Funny -- you’d think he’d get the message after the umpteenth try.”

Tom snorted. “Humans. They like to think they’re smarter than everybody else. Though all you gotta do is look at a loser like Soapy to realize that ain’t true. Livin’ on the street is a daily exercise in screw-ups for him. Any stray cat knows enough to stay off the liquor and can score a meal just as successfully.”

Mittens shook her head. “There’s gratitude for you,” she thought. “Soapy’s nice enough to toss us a bite of sandwich and this guy puts him down. Eh -- if that’s Tom’s worst quality, it makes him better than every other street cat I’ve met so far, I guess.” Her stomach grumbled audibly. “Heh -- how unladylike of me,” laughed the tuxedo cat. “Looks like a bite of bacon and croissant only goes so far when it comes to filling a bottomless belly pit.”

“Speaking of which, I’m more than ready for a munch myself,” agreed the Maine coon cat. “Whaddya say we try and line up a few easy marks that can be separated from their lunch?”

Further down past the final street arcade games was a beer garden with picnic table seating. Tom scouted out the people eating from large foam containers. “Hey,” he whispered to Mittens. “How’s about those two prize pigeons over there?” Two middle-aged gentlemen sat in worn fold-up patio chairs, chatting in Hindi and balancing nearly-full plates of food in their laps.

“Okay, little tuxie -- watch and learn,” muttered Tom. He crept to the side of the men, and with a loud yowl jumped into their laps, knocking the plates of food to the ground. The shouting men roughly pushed the large feline away and indignantly headed off to a nearby food truck for replacement meals.

“Haha -- dinner is served!” shouted the big tabby, gesturing to the two spilled plates with a welcoming flourish. Mittens certainly didn’t need an engraved invitation, racing over to lap up the overturned bounty.

“Whoa, spicy!” exclaimed the black cat between bites. “This is activating taste buds I didn’t even know I had. It ain’t exactly among the top ten best noshes I’ve ever had, but… ” She licked her nose and winked at her friend. “But the best meal is the one in your stomach, am I right?”

Tom wrinkled up his face. “Ick -- curry chicken, samosas, and saag paneer. Not exactly my favorite either. Shoulda held out for a couple hamburgers with the works. Oh well, at least the price is right.”

The pair of felines spent the rest of the day into the evening scarfing down food scraps, taking in the various arcade games, and people watching. As night fell and the clouds dispersed, Tom stretched luxuriously and purred. “So, whaddya say we find someplace to turn in for the night, little lady? I’m bushed.”

Mittens had been mulling over her feelings for the husky tomcat all day. The prospect of being fully enveloped by the big tabby, wearing him like a luxurious fox fur coat for a while before falling asleep, was a must if she got the chance -- and it was now obvious that a tryst was a given if she gave the go-ahead. But was there a possibility for something more enduring than a single day’s dalliance here? Mittens hadn’t felt the desire to bond with a potential mate this strongly before, but had no idea if he’d return her affections. Tom was maddeningly hard to figure out on that issue.

She ultimately decided to accept whatever came her way and hope for the best. With a lecherous grin on her face, Mittens seductively murmured, “Yeah, sure. I’m ready for a little shut-eye, myself. Or anything else you may have in mind, for that matter.”

IV. I Don’t Know Where I Stand

The day dawned with the clouds back in full force. The dank, oversized sky marshmallows hung low and threatening, but no precipitation fell from them. Not yet, anyway.

Mittens yawned and stretched. Last night had been great, and sleeping next to Tom afterwards was the coziest she had felt in a long while. When the big tabby’s eyes opened, she playfully batted his ear. “Morning, sunshine!” she giggled. “Y’know, you make a mighty comfy blanket. Haven’t slept that soundly in months.”

The look on Tom’s face was not easy to read, though Mittens wondered if she had caught a fleeting glimpse of panic. The tabby rubbed his eyes with a paw and broke into a smile that, truth be told, seemed mildly forced. “Oh -- oh yeah,” he said sleepily. “I’ve been told that lots of times before. Kinda comes with the territory for us Maine coon cats. All that fur, you know. Like Scar from ‘The Lion King’, I’d have made a handsome throw rug.” He got to his feet and looked at the sky with a frown. “Man, I’m hungry. I could eat an elephant with a side of water buffalo right about now.”

Mittens laughed. “Me too. My stomach was grumbling like Eeyore on a bad day when I woke up. Hunger just seems to be my constant companion lately.”

“Same here,” said Tom with a nod. “We’ll take a quick stroll by the street carnival site first, but I suspect it’s been swept clean. They probably don’t want any more rats hangin’ around than they’ve got already. Got a feeling we’re gonna end up visiting Soapy for a handout. He always has somethin’ for hungry kitty-cats like yours truly if we’re desperate.”

The feline pair only needed to follow their ears to find Soapy, who was lounging like a pasha at the opposite end of the diner from where he’d sat yesterday. His boombox had developed a Buffalo Springfield obsession, squawking out the guitar solo from “Sit Down, I Think I Love You” for all to hear.

“Well, there you are, you great big furball,” slurred the homeless man, who had gotten an early start on happy hour. “And you brought the Queen of Clubs back with ya. Hope you two like pancakes, ‘cause that’s the only thing on the menu today.”

Mittens bumped her head affectionately into Soapy’s leg and meowed. “It ain’t eggs benedict, but it’ll fill me up,” she thought, as she accepted a big, gloppy handful of flapjack chunks.

“Got a lotta syrupy goodness poured all over it,” said the bum. “Though you wouldn’t know it anyway. Cats can’t taste sweet stuff, am I right?”

“Mmmph! Lemme finish scarfin’ down these goodies and then I’ll tell you one way or the other,” purred the tuxedo cat exuberantly.

Tom however turned up his nose. “Geez, you goofy sot,” he complained, though it only sounded like meowing to Soapy. “You really couldn’t score a mouthful of sausage on the side? No thanks. I’ll rustle up something a bit less leaden in the stomach.” He turned to Mittens. “I’m gonna go off prowling, see what else I can find. Why don’t you stay here and keep our last-resort benefactor company, okay?”

“Sure. Go ahead and good luck to you,” she said. “Maybe you can channel Houdini and conjure up a nice truffle and egg frittata. Me, I’m strictly a bird-in-the-hand gal.” As Tom dashed away, Mittens stared after him and shook her head. “Probably needs a little ‘me time’. Don’t wanna get too clingy here, or I’ll scare Adonis off.”

Soapy gave the black feline a keen-eyed look as the music selection shifted to “Good Time Boy.” “Looks like you two hit it off yesterday, eh? You have that satisfied look all his female admirers get after spending the night with him.” He picked up a decrepit paper sack and took a deep draught from a can hidden in its crumpled depths. “But take my advice, little missy -- he’s strictly a one-night-stand kind of guy. I’m afraid your Maine coon cat main squeeze will avoid you from here on in. He’s kind of a rogue and a heartbreaker, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

Mittens stared across the street at nothing in particular. “Yeah -- you’re probably right, but who knows? Maybe I can twist his arm somehow,” she thought. “Everybody’s got a sweet spot where you can dig past the baloney and find the real McCoy. That soft center where you can make a legit connection.”

She pensively licked a paw. “All right, all right. Maybe he’s not exactly Tom Joad or Tom Robinson,” she mused. “Maybe more like Tom Bertram from ‘Mansfield Park’ by Jane Austen? A fatheaded spendthrift who just needs a good boot in the slats to grow up. Or Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer? A brat who’s up to all kinds of trouble and will come around with a hard scolding and a heavy-duty swat on the keister. Or… ”

The cat sighed heavily. “Or maybe I’m just kidding myself,” she thought.

Soapy looked with concern at the looming clouds. A light sprinkle of snow had begun to fall, and the man shivered. “Urk. I’ve been puttin’ it off and puttin’ it off, just like I do every fall. Looks like it’s time to leave the great outdoors behind and find myself a nice warm jail cell to pass the winter. Bein’ on the street in the middle of January is a lousy way to stay toasty.” He shambled to his feet. “Well, let’s see. All I gotta do is get myself arrested on a minor charge. Don’t want to be put away in the big house upstate or nothin’.”

He lumbered towards the sidewalk. “Okay, little Queen of Clubs. Here’s how it’s done.” Soapy crossed the street, looked around, and picked up a brick, lobbing it at the display window of the tobacconist’s shop in front of him. To his chagrin, the missile bounced harmlessly off the glass. The perplexed wino scratched his head and tried again -- and again, the brick sprang back from the window like a rubber ball off a wood panel. By now fully bewildered, he tried heaving his chunk of masonry several more times, earnestly trying to break the glass with no luck whatsoever.

Two policemen strode over to Soapy just as he stood poised and ready to toss the brick yet one more time. “You takin’ me downtown?” asked the hopeful boozer as the cops grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Not a chance, buddy boy,” snapped one of the officers. “We’ve had vandalism problems here lately, so the shopkeepers have all installed laminated shatterproof windows. You couldn’t break that sucker with a howitzer.” The policeman gave Soapy a disdainful shove towards the curb. “Anyway, we’ve got better things to do than play pinch the pinhead with small potatoes like you. Now get lost, and find a nice freeway to go play in.”

Soapy shrugged his shoulders and skulked back to where Mittens sat eyeing him with amusement as the entertainment center segued into “Hung Upside Down.” “Sheesh -- how was I to know the store merchants sprang for Cadillac-level casements?” he said with irritation. “Okay, okay -- maybe a little petty pilfering is in order. Note I said ‘petty’ -- this is gonna be kept strictly at misdemeanor level.”

Diagonally across the street from the diner, an imposing-looking woman stood with two shopping bags filled with groceries on either side, clutching a folded-up umbrella. Soapy sidled over to her, reached for one of the two-handled sacks, and cleared his throat, making sure she would catch him in the act of thievery and hopefully beckon a policeman.

“What in the Sam Hill you think you’re doin’ there, dawg?” she yelled as she began hitting Soapy over the head repeatedly with her umbrella. “I’ll teach you to pick on poor, defenseless women like me!”

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Stop it, lady!” Soapy shrieked. “Enough already! There’s two cops right there. Why don’t you just call them over and have me arrested?”

“I don’t think so,” the woman screeched as her umbrella began to develop tatters from the repeated blows. “Looks like I can take care of a wiseacre like you all by my lonesome.”

The two policemen standing nearby laughed heartily and applauded. “Give him hell, sister!” shouted one of them as they crossed the street to the opposite side, still giggling.

Soapy dashed howling into the street, narrowly being missed by a pair of oncoming cars as he staggered back to the diner, his head covered in his hands. “Just my luck,” he moaned. “I hadda go pick on the toughest broad in Manhattan. Looks like I’m gonna have to find a major-league wimp to pull this off. Somebody who fits the dictionary definition of a milquetoast. Somebody like… him!”

He pointed to a thin, short, dapper man standing in front of the nearby crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. The little fellow sported coke-bottle bottomed glasses and a short gray beard, wore a black bowler hat and black raincoat, and held an unfurled umbrella. He looked for all the world like the stereotypic pictures one normally sees of turn-of-the-century French composer Erik Satie on CD covers.

The by-now thoroughly frustrated drunkard stood directly in front of his quarry, staring him in the eye with a malevolent glare. “Okay, you timorous popinjay, let’s have it. I need that umbrella you’re holding, and right now,” he shouted at the top of his lungs. The two policemen slowly began to walk over to this little scene, eyeing Soapy warily.

The Erik Satie look-alike’s face softened into a picture of sympathy as the clouds began to open up and let loose more precipitation. “Oh dear, dear, dear. You poor unfortunate soul. You know, you’ll catch your death in this frightful weather.”

Soapy gaped incredulously as the man calmly handed over his umbrella. “But… but… but… ” he stammered in surprise.

“Now, now -- I absolutely insist, my good fellow,” said the man primly. “And don’t worry about me. I always carry at least two spares in my coat at all times. I own a company that manufactures umbrellas. In fact, my apartment is filled with the things. Now, take this one, and remember our slogan, ‘If you want to stay jolly, get a Gnossienne Brolly’. They’re sold at druggists and dollar stores everywhere. Don’t forget to tell your friends.”

Mittens rolled over on her back, convulsed in laughter as the selection “Pay the Price” bounced through the speakers. “Some days, you just can’t lose for winning,” she thought. “Soapy, you really, really oughta drop a buck on a lottery ticket. You’ll be a millionaire tomorrow for sure if you do, and you can leave your homeless days behind for good.”

V. The Gallery

Mittens continued to visit Soapy over the next couple of days, witnessing his invariably botched attempts to get himself arrested. On one of her early jaunts to the diner, she accidentally ran into Tom along the way. There was no alley or open doorway for him to duck into, so the tabby decided it’d be best to stop in front of an art gallery, looking at the pictures in the window while hoping his black cat one-night-stand would pass him by.

She approached Tom, sat down to face him, and scoffed loudly. “Yeah, yeah. You’re a connoisseur of the arts all of a sudden. Just plop your big ol’ butt down and pretend I’m not there, why don’tcha. Wasn’t expecting any better, to be honest. Don’t worry, Hercules -- I’m not looking to start anything up with you again.”

Tom turned and eyed her warily. “Oh, it’s you. Actually, I was planning to drop in on you one of these days. See what the Flatiron District really looks like, and maybe y’know brighten your day a tad. We actually did have a few laughs that last weekend, didn’t we?”

“Uh-huh. You obviously noticed the honkin’ big smile I was working up when I sat down next to you,” snarled the tuxedo cat. “But hey -- don’t give me a second thought. I’m a big girl, and I’ve loved and left better than you in the past. I mean, you’re not half bad I suppose, but I can curl up in a bearskin rug with a freshly peeled carrot and have just as good a time as we did. Better, even -- ‘cause the carrot would have had enough stamina for another round instead of falling asleep!”

“Ouch!” said Tom snidely. “Try puttin’ the carrot in a boring enough stew and see what happens. Sorry I didn’t meet your highfalutin’ standards, Little Miss Wisenheimer. Though to be fair, I wasn’t really giving it my all when we spent that night together. Inspiration can be pretty hard to conjure up when it comes to some floozies you waste the evening with.”

“Eh -- enough of the pleasantries already,” grumbled Mittens. “Looks like I must’ve spooked you pretty bad given that you haven’t been by to visit Soapy since then. He mentioned it, you know.”

“Nah. I’ve about had it up to here with losers like him,” growled Tom. “If you wanna waste your time hangin’ around with that lush, knock yourself out. Me, I’ve moved on to bigger and better things.”

Mittens gave the big tabby a dirty look. “Listen, Mr. High-and-Mighty. Soapy may be a tramp, but he ain’t such bad people. He’s a good-hearted guy, he shares what little he has with street urchins like us, and he means well. You could take a few lessons in being a mensch from him.”

The two cats sat without speaking for several minutes, their reservoir of snarky banter having run dry. Eventually, Mittens broke the silence, letting her guard down a little. “What happened with us, anyway? I’ve grown pretty suspicious of street critters, but… well, I dunno… at one point, I was half wondering if maybe we might’ve made a little bit of a connection here. Guess I was wrong.”

The tabby’s face contorted into a grimace. “Guess you were,” he said icily. “I’m a rolling stone, kiddo. Commitment just ain’t part of my makeup. Life is short, and I’m all about avoiding routine. I gotta dip into as much variety as I can manage, and you never know what tomorrow brings. Now, if you’ll pardon me, there’s a whole new world of surprises just waitin’ for me to experience. Seeya around -- or not, as the case may be.” With that, the Maine coon cat slowly padded off.

“Sheesh. Having an artistic temperament is especially irritating when there’s no artistry to go along with it.” Mittens scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Nah, he’s not like Tom Sawyer or Tom Joad. Or Tom Bertram or Tom Robinson, either,” she mused. “More like Tom Buchanan from ‘The Great Gatsby’ by F. Scott Fitzgerald -- a ginormous sleazeball, totally unworthy of his wife. Or maybe Tom Riddle from those ‘Harry Potter’ books -- a nasty, no-nose scoundrel I’d just as soon not even think about.”

The cat groaned. “Ugh -- yanked that bandage off without too much sting,” she thought. “That awkward little encounter could’ve come straight out of a Joni Mitchell song. Anyway, let’s see what’s going on with my benefactor with the boombox.”

She continued to walk along, lost in thought. “Love. You get this craving in your heart and your crotch, and for what? Nothin’ ever works out, and you’re just dumped on the sidewalk like a tossed-out candy wrapper. What’s the point? Why do we have to feel stuff like this?” The cat shook her head sadly. “I really don’t know love at all.”

VI. Chelsea Morning

When Mittens found Soapy, he was munching on a fake-maple-flavored breakfast sandwich and listening to “Love’s Made a Fool of You” as covered by the Bobby Fuller Four. “So much NOT the song I wanted to hear right now,” the cat groused. “Oh well -- I guess it’s worth it to get a bite of that culinary monstrosity he’s scarfing down.” She sidled up to the man and mewed plaintively.

“Oh -- there you are,” he said. “I had just about given up on ya. Like I need to eat every last bit of this nasty little tidbit. Heck, it’ll just sop up some of that hooch I’m plannin’ to suck down soon.” He tossed the last of the sandwich to the hungry feline. “Enjoy. Compliments of the house.” Mittens gave Soapy’s shoulder a head bonk and purred with thanks.

“Man, I can’t understand it. I’ve tried every trick in the book short of bank robbery to get pinched. Nothin’ has worked -- and I mean nothin’!” Soapy tapped his hand on his knee as he thought, while a second Bobby Fuller tune, “I Fought the Law,” took its place in the song rotation. “I’m telling ya, desperate times call for desperate measures. Guess I’ll have to play the despicable masher to whatever unlucky lady happens my way next.”

Just as he finished speaking, a woman in her early 30s strode out of the diner’s front door. She had mousy brown hair set back in a ponytail cinched by a yellow scrunchy. She was homely but lively, with a ferocious energy one often associates with younger women in their late teens or early 20s. Stalking to the side of the eatery, she stopped to read a subway schedule.

The drunk sprang to his feet and ambled purposefully over to the woman. He grinned lasciviously and intoned in a suggestive voice, “Well, hello there, you funky, scrumptious chick. If you ain’t the smokin-est hot piece of tail I’ve seen in months. How’s about you and me, well, you know, makin’ some sweet horizontal flippy floppy together, hmmmm?”

The woman’s eyes flashed in anger at the brazen would-be seducer. “Just who do you think you’re talking to, buster?” she said, vehemently shaking her finger at him. “If you don’t apologize to me right this instant, I’ll drag you to the police station around the corner myself!”

Soapy smirked. “Yeah, I’m really scared now.” To his surprise, the woman firmly grabbed him by his coat lapels, slamming him into the side of the diner with so much force that he gave forth a loud, grunting exhale.

“You should be!” she shouted. “I’ll bet you thought I was kidding, didn’t you? Well, guess what -- be prepared to spend the next couple months in jail, you slimy weasel!” With that, the angry woman dragged Soapy down the street by his scarf. As the song “Let Her Dance” came squawking through the speakers to complete the Fuller Four trifecta, Mittens was certain she saw a happy smirk on the hobo’s face as he hastily departed. When the cat returned the next day, there was no trace of her homeless friend or his trusty portable entertainment center.

“Oh well,” mewled Mittens. “Looks like he finally got his wish for a nice, warm room in the pokey after all -- and it looks like I’m back to scrounging dumpsters again.”

VII. Both Sides, Now

Several frigid months after Soapy’s disappearance, Mittens found herself back at the Umpire Diner once again, entirely by accident. It was spring, and while cloudy, the weather was halfway decent for the time being.

“Huh -- wonder if that booze hound I used to hang out with last year is about to get his ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card,” thought the cat. “It’s been a pretty lean stretch for me, and I wouldn’t say no to a little lunch offering right about now. I kinda miss the poor guy, actually. Friends have been even tougher to come by than handouts these days.”

While walking a few blocks to the south, Mittens saw a man sitting on the stoop of a brownstone, munching on a hot dog with everything on it. He looked familiar, but the cat couldn’t quite place him. She had seen a lot of people since being abandoned on the street, but still -- he seemed a lot more recognizable than most.

The man stopped in mid-bite. “Well, bless my ever-lovin’ soul. If it ain’t the Queen of Clubs herself.” Mittens did a double-take and then happily ran over to him. It was Soapy all right, but he looked radically different. Sporting short hair and a clean-shaven chin, he smelled like cologne instead of body odor and was dressed in casual, but not shabby clothing. He grinned and held out the end of his hot dog for Mittens, who ravenously wolfed down the offered food.

“Ah, that’s good, that’s good. Enjoy it, little missy. I’m actually pretty well-fed these days.” He laughed heartily. “Heck, I’ve just about reached borderline respectable level.” Soapy’s expression was warm and sympathetic. “Bet you were wondering what happened to me when I didn’t come back. Well, I’ll tell you a little story… ”

He regaled his feline friend with tales of his good luck since last seeing her. How the angry woman he tried to solicit had indeed dragged him off to the police station, only to be told they were short-staffed and she would have to wait a while -- that her spiriting in yet another drunk that deserved incarceration was rapidly trying the patience of the local precinct. How they sat down waiting for Soapy’s arraignment, passing the time by first talking about the food at the diner (which they both found excellent) and music (where they discovered lots of common ground to explore), bringing the two of them into an unexpected rapport. How the woman had dropped the complaint and promised to have Soapy over for dinner, but only if he cleaned himself up first. How they had hit it off swimmingly, begun dating, and then moved in together, with a summer wedding coming up on the horizon. How he had sworn off booze forever and, heavens to Murgatroyd, had actually gotten a job as a shop cashier and salesman in a nearby store.

“Funny thing,” he finally said. “I would’ve given anything to land myself in the hoosegow back then. I did kinda get myself incarcerated, after a fashion. That’s okay, though. Hey, everybody’s got limits and boundaries that hem them in, right? If living with a fine woman is a life sentence, it’s one I feel good about. We’ve all got something -- job, marriage, kids, artistic passions, that kind of stuff.”

“Hen-RY! Oh HEEEEN-ry!” came a female voice from upstairs. “You done daydreaming with that hot dog yet? We’re heading out soon to pick up curtains and throw rugs. Remember?”

“Almost ready, sweetums. Haven’t forgotten. You go make yourself look scrumptious, and I’ll be up in a minute,” he called out.

As if anticipating Mittens’s thoughts, he said, “Yeah -- my real name’s Henry. Soapy is no more, but hey, that’s fine. And fair warning -- if I were you, I’d hightail it outta here and not come back. The love of my life doesn’t much fancy cats. She’s been known to call the Animal Rescue League when she sees me sharing a bite with hungry street critters. They even get carted off to the pound sometimes. Sure wouldn’t want you to suffer the same fate. Great to see you, though. Have a nice life, my sweet little Queen of Clubs.”

Mittens gave the man an affectionate head bump and side rub on his leg, then scampered off. She didn’t need to be told twice.

As the clouds began to thicken and drop chilly rain, the cat shook her head. “Wow -- who’d a thunk it? That was the absolute last thing I thought I’d ever see. Life sure is strange.” She scrambled for the shelter of a store awning and sighed. “I really don’t know life at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> If the reader wishes to listen to the referenced music, choose the Joni Mitchell song versions from her album "Clouds," the Translator songs from their self-titled third album, and the Wire Train songs from their first album "...In a Chamber." Accept no covers or substitutes.


End file.
